


The Hobbyist's Almanac

by Nimitztlazohtla



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Low-stakes, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:00:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22421479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nimitztlazohtla/pseuds/Nimitztlazohtla
Summary: As it so happens, thousands of years of murder tends to wear on the psyche. Ciaran decides that some reevaluation is in order.
Relationships: Artorias the Abysswalker & Lord's Blade Ciaran, Lord's Blade Ciaran & Dragon Slayer Ornstein, Lord's Blade Ciaran & Hawkeye Gough
Comments: 6
Kudos: 38





	The Hobbyist's Almanac

Ciaran wiped her blade clean on the shirt of her latest quarry, its owner's hollow eyes locked upon her in their final throes of agony. 

This one hardly put up a fight. There was no resistance, no pleading; nary an indication of anything at all from them apart from cold, black acceptance. Just a dead human sitting dead still at their desk, counting the seconds until the Pale Mask arrived. Like putting down a sick dog.

Once upon a time the Lord’s Blade relished this. Now, it only left a sour taste in her mouth.

Well. With no one else on the list today, and with Anor Londo’s capitol within veritable walking distance, it made little sense to dwell in this sorry place when she could soon be in a warm bed.

She was only halfway out the window when the dead-of-night breeze came alive, and something on the nearby desk began to tumble away along with it. Ciaran snatched it — she wasn't quite sure why. Some kleptomaniacal habit from her younger years resurfacing, perhaps. Time hardly allowed for her to give her catch a once-over before the telltale sounds of creaking footsteps snapped her back to the present. The time for dallying was over.

She was out the window and on the neighboring rooftop when she heard the mortal scream of discovery. The thick pamphlet remained crumpled in her fist. It was hers now, she supposed.

_ The Hobbyist's Almanac: The Tired Soul's Guide to Self-Discovery and Happiness _

The capitol at Anor Londo was perhaps Ciaran’s favorite place to stalk. Every secret passageway and illusory wall had been memorized by heart, and that meant that she knew all the best ways to avoid an unwanted encounter in as efficient a manner as possible. Sometimes that even meant avoiding the three other members of her quartet of Knights, which was a guilty habit that had seized her of late. Oftentimes she hadn’t the energy for a long catch-up conversation with Gough, or a new attempt to warm her up to his new pet wolf by Artorias, or even a curt-if-not-affable nod from Captain Ornstein.

More ‘mosttimes’ than ‘oftentimes’, actually, considering recent events.  _ What a friend you are. _

Soon Ciaran found herself in bed examining her recent prize. The fireplace at the other end of these temporary quarters radiated a comforting warmth, but the lulling dance of shadows on the walls nonetheless did nothing to ease the strange tangled ball of anxiety in her chest. Here she was, reading a book in bed like an old woman instead of doing something useful, whatever that may be. Like the mistress of her childhood soup kitchen, languishing right into her mattress.

...Ciaran grimaced at the memory and began to pace instead.

It was worrying how much of this foolish almanac spoke to her, in her skimming. This latest target of hers, she and they were apparently quite similar. Driven people, shy people, doing little as life passed them by. Or, maybe — maybe Ciaran was just projecting. After all, how much could she truly have in common with a traitor to the Lord?

Her lips twisted into a mirthless smirk. She was going to throw this damned thing away, or tear it up, or burn it, or all three. But soon she was reading on her side, then with her back against the wall, then she was in her armchair, and before she knew it she was staring at its backside. Awfully rattled.

What… What  _ did _ she do for a hobby? Who  _ was _ she beyond a person who stabbed other people, all behind the protection of a mask?

When she was young, she played pranks on friend and mentor alike. She stole, she broke things, she started small fires. Then after the… incident… she became a Silver Knight, and it was all the same from then on — and in its own way, it lost all meaning, too. Thousands of years spent as the left hand of the Lord of Sunlight, to what benefit of her own? Or indeed, to what benefit to those she cared about the most?

Her friends, small in number though they were, made her happy now. But did she make  _ them _ happy? Were their laughs genuine when she attempted the occasional sardonic joke? Did they value her approval of them? Gods. Now she understood what it was like to be Captain Ornstein, anxious and fidgety all the time however much he tried to hide it.

She collapsed back into bed, resolution written plain across her face. There will be no more of this. She was a determined woman, and if she was determined to go self-improve, then by the Lord, she would self-improve.

"Alright, Almanac," Ciaran said to nobody as she reopened the pamphlet. "Teach me your strategy."

_ Step One: Open up to your friends _

She groaned and smacked it back shut.

_ Step Two: Realize that nothing holds you down _

The odor of black coffee was the perfect for rousing a night owl when the sun shone high. Combined with the burning surprise of accidentally swallowing some far too early, Ciaran was now awake with an angry fervor.

Thankfully, she knew a giant who was excellent at soothing anger, if not a scalded tongue.

"Good morrow, Hawkeye," she said, and hoped she came off amicable.

The giant’s head jerked at the sudden voice, and swiveled about before finally spotting the tiny Lord’s Blade perched on a massive windowsill. Her coy porcelain smirk, for once, reflected the genuine one hidden beneath.

Gough cracked a bright toothy grin in turn, seemingly able to sense as much, but then squinted and looked to the bright sky behind her. “‘Tis nearly noon, little hornet.”

"Mmm. Well, good noon, then," she said, and sat. She figured that Ornstein, Artorias, and herself could all fit on a singular windowsill with room to spare. This combined with the gorgeous view of the city below, and Ciaran was certainly envious of Gough’s room.

“Well. I am pleased that thou’st decided to sneak in anyhow,” Gough rumbled. He looked down and scraped at something in his palm. The gleam of a knife was enough to raise an eyebrow. “How hast thy journey treated thee?”

That question was nearly as dusty and old as the giant himself, and they both knew full well that the answer was “Okay, I suppose”. Playing that game didn’t sound fun at all, and Ciaran instead took note of the object in Gough’s hands. “I wasn’t aware that you were familiar with whittling.”

Something pleasant, grandfatherly, graced his features. "The Blacksmith warmed me up to the idea," he said. "The chap hath always been so intent in his work, and I have always admired him for it. I figured that I should indulge in some forging of mine own."

“And here I thought you a mere archer.”

"Ah, but I am, little one-" he stopped and chuckled. He knew full well that Ciaran disliked being called ‘little’. "But an entire life through the lense of that one specialty? It maketh an incredibly narrow scope through which to view the rest of it.

“After thou or I pass, we will be remembered as Knights of Gwyn, aye. But if a Knight of Gwyn is  _ all _ thou art — never let thyself be  _ all _ one thing — then when thou groweth old and tired, and unable to fulfill thy duty, then where will thou next be headed?"

Surprising to hear from the normally-content giant. And Ciaran was normally so perceptive, too. "But… that is our job, Hawkeye. Knights of Gwyn are all we are. Silver Knights may take leave, and retire and live another life, but we are hardly allowed sleep. We all took this vow."

“Ah, but we are allowed now, are we not? Keep thy blades sharp, Ciaran, yea, but keep thy mind sharper." 

That certain line of wisdom had come from Gough before, though never before under such a dubiously heretical topic of conversation. At least, Ciaran imagined that Lord Gwyn would disapprove. And yet he had a point; a painting of all one color could only be so interesting.

"What thinkest thou? Hast thou any interests outside of thy assassin's work?" 

Ciaran’s face flushed.  _ This _ was why she liked to hide from others. "I am… working on that. Thank you for the talk, Gough, but I must—”

Gough shifted. “Wait.”

Already she was standing to leave, but the sudden urgency in the giant’s tone gave her pause. She hardly had time to question it before a massive hand lifted to her altitude, matted in sawdust. With tenderness unbefitting one his size, Gough pushed an amateurish wooden carving in Ciaran’s hands. Immediately it struck her as the shape of a hornet.

Lord’s Blades had no choice in their white masks, symbols of status though they were. Ciaran had chosen the hornet as her symbol herself. A final vestige of her life before knighthood. And no matter how a professional may be able to carve one better, such a thing still wouldn’t be a carving from  _ Gough. _

“Dost thou like it?”

She lifted her mask, and dearly hoped that the upward quirk of her lips appeared as genuine as it felt. “This is beautiful… Thank you.”

His eyes wrinkled shut. “I am most pleased, then. Thou art the first to reap the rewards of mine newfound hobby.”

Surely it would be rude to leave now, when she hadn’t a gift to give in turn. But as much as Ciaran would have loved to stay, she had a dayplan to stick with. There were so few times when all four Knights of Gwyn were in Anor Londo all at once, after all.

With a nod, she reaffixed her mask and pocketed the carving. Gough would understand.

“If you find Knight Artorias before I do,” she said, “tell him to find me.”

“I promise that I will, little hornet.”

_ Step three: Find what is within your range of doing _

Artorias was a different person when he was outdoors. How he functioned at all within the marble walls of Anor Londo was a mystery. Even now, as Ciaran walked beside him in the gardens, his long, energetic strides hinted of a secret wish to be outside the city again, to be vagabonding from village to village and seeing the people. But all the same, there was a comfort in his body language that told her that he was happy to be among fellow knights, if only for a short time.

At one time Ciaran would have used the word “childish” to describe him, and she would have meant it as an insult. Now, the youngest of Gwyn’s four knights proved an invaluable anchor for them all. Indeed, Ciaran could confidently call him a friend. Perhaps even something like a—?

_ No. I wouldn’t go that far. Not that I could if I wanted to. _

Artorias’ hood was pulled up, and his features were enshrouded in shadow, but Ciaran imagined a handsome, reminiscent smile upon him. "I've lived among nature for as long as I could remember. Until I was knighted, at least." He glanced at her. 

_ That is wishful thinking, anyways.  _ She dismissed the heartthrob with a mental wave. 

They sat together atop an ornate bench, overlooking the cramped yet cozy plant growth before them, and the skyline beyond. The wolf leaned into her master’s welcoming scratches — Sif, he had named her? A panting tongue still lulled about from her mad puppyish sprinting, and her eyes shone towards Artorias nothing but love. 

Ciaran usually hated dogs, though this one she could probably learn to enjoy. Sif was smart, if not sharing the same sort of lack of dignity as her brethren.

"So...” Artorias seemed to ponder further Ciaran’s question to him, about fulfillment beyond knighthood. “this is where I come when I feel overwhelmed, or when the city proves too stuffy for me, I suppose. Here or the woods proper, such as the Royal Wood near Oolacile. Nature is a boundless provider of calm, of wellness. It just takes the right mindset to reject the material comforts of civilization.”

It all seemed awfully arbitrary to Ciaran, but she supposed she understood. “It is always a surprise to me how easy you are to please,” she lamented. “I think it is admirable. Enviable.”

“Mm.” Artorias stroked his chin. “Well, what sorts of things make you happy, Ciaran?”

That was a difficult question. Ciaran beseeched herself with disappointing returns. "...I am not sure. Succeeding. Lock-picking. Sparring."

"Well… none of those things are terrible, but you do not sound so sure of any of them, either." 

“Sleeping, then.” Artorias seemed to realize that Ciaran was sending him a mock-glare beneath her mask. 

He raised his hands in mock-defense. “Ahh! Spare me your stone stare, Lord’s Blade!”

They chuckled.

To her frustration, Artorias was correct (not that it would have taken a genius to read her how he did). The little hints of satisfaction to be gleaned from her job probably were not sustainable, especially with diminishing returns after millennia of service.

_ Fulfillment eludes me yet again. _

Suddenly the world lurched. The dog was reared up and pushing her body into Ciaran, lapping viciously at her mask, the only barrier between her and death by dog breath. 

The seat slipped from beneath her. Her arms flailed in a panic. "Artori—!"

_ Thud. _

She was pinned in the grass now.

_ Stupid wolf. _

Meanwhile, Artorias was laughing like it was the funniest thing he'd ever seen. "See, Ciaran? Isn't she wonderful?"

"I think I have a concussion..."

Suddenly Sif was on her feet again —  _ smart wolf _ — and Ciaran found Artorias knelt by her side. "Are you sure?" he asked. "I haven’t a miracle at the ready, but the nearest clinic is a few minutes' walk away."

...Their eyes locked, and Ciaran decided not to examine the thumping in her chest. "N-No, Artorias," she insisted, pushing him away as she sat up. She frowned at her robes, "Grass stains."

Sif merely licked her again.

She needed out of here. "Thank you anyways, Artorias." She sighed as he helped her to her feet. "This little conversation has been quite illuminating."

Artorias tilted his head. "I'm glad I could help," he said. "...I did enjoy our talk. We should do it more often. Perhaps you should accompany me on my next walk into the Darkroot Garden."

"Uh…" Maybe so. As unattractive a prospect as constantly guarding against a wolf ambush seemed, it was still a relief to hear that Artorias wanted her near. "We will see. Fare thee well, Artorias."

Ciaran wasn't ten paces away before Artorias said to her, "Good luck on finding a hobby!"

Did he have to shout so loud? "I  _ said _ fare thee well."

_ Step Four: Realize your passions _

Ciaran would be remiss not to see the Captain again, before one of them was sent back abroad. 

He was perhaps her oldest friend, after all. They had both earned their silver armor and they both served in the same company. When they reunited as Knights of Gwyn years after fighting together, their friendship was strengthened. 

And yet, it was for the reason of their closeness why Ciaran found the idea of speaking with him intimidating. It was the Firstborn — the first Dragon Slayer, the first captain of Gwyn's Knights, and the one who knighted them all in turn. And the very utterance of his name was a heresy worthy of the receiving end of the Lord’s Blade.

It was unfair, and it had hurt them all when the Firstborn was banished, or perhaps fled from a worse fate. But it was Ornstein who suffered the most.

They could never talk about it. But for how terrible Ciaran was at consoling, she couldn’t avoid him forever.

With an old  _ creak _ the door to the Dragon Slayer’s quarters opened, and Ciaran let herself inside. Immediately she was beset by a pleasant aroma, and stopped to admire the smell — cumin, garlic, chili? By the Lord, It hadn’t occurred to her how hungry she had grown.

Such was the effect of Ornstein's cooking on those whose diets consisted of ninety percent black coffee.

"Captain," she said once the smell had relinquished her. Within the safety of his quarters, it felt safe to remove her porcelain mask. "You're cooking again."

He hadn’t been expecting her, and apparently hadn’t heard her knock. Even in spite of his rather comical surprise, he seemed far fuller, healthier, brighter than Ciaran had seen of him in quite a while, a realization which filled her with no small measure of relief. Even managing a simmering pot, Ornstein still managed to brush some locks out of his eyes. "Ah. Ciaran. This is just some pork stew I have in progress. Nothing special."

By Ornstein's standards, perhaps. "Are you to make enough for three plus a giant?"

It seemed as if the thought hadn't occurred to him. "I figured that I would gander at something small right now. There should be enough for several servings, I figure."  _ Enough for you to help yourself to some, if you pleased. _

Fair enough. Ornstein didn’t object as she sat herself at his table, and so she took that as a good sign to make herself at home. "I've been meaning to speak with you.”

"Oh?" he said over his shoulder. Ciaran imagined he already knew the subject matter.

"You have been a cook for as long as I could remember, since you were my captain in the Silver Knights legion. And you’ve always been… in love with it. And until recently, I didn’t realize that I’ve been envious of you. And forgive me if I am callous, but you’ve always seemed happiest whenever you cook.” She smiled. “You seem happier now.”

Ornstein was quiet for a moment. “I cook when I am happy, Ciaran, not the other way around.”

“Oh. I see.”

“I know what you are asking about, though.” His voice fell somewhat. “I feel better. Not… great, but better. It’s time that has healed me. Time, Gough, Artorias, and you.”

He turned and poured some final ingredients into the broth, and gently stirred, gripping the edge of the pot with a careful mittened hand. Like that, his fatigue had dissipated. “In truth, the reason why I’m cooking now is because word got to me that you are in need of a hobby.”

Oh, damn it all. “Who is telling people that I need a hobby?”

“Gough.” He turned, a gentle tease gleaming in his eyes. “You know he only does what he thinks is best. He would only spread a secret if he was sure that only good would come of it.”

Ciaran rolled her eyes. “Well, a lot of good that did, anyways. All I have managed to do is prove to myself that I  _ have _ a problem.”

A bowl of stew slid across the stable and sloshed to a stop before her. The delicious smell alone was enough to cause her to blank.

“Stop worrying and eat,” Ornstein said.

“Mm. You’re one to tell me not to worry.”

“I am and I mean it.”

Ornstein sat himself opposite of her, his own bowl of stew in hand. “So you’ve thought about it. Have you entertained any options, at least?”

Ciaran swallowed. “...No. Nothing speaks to me. I’m still getting there.”

Ornstein glanced at her from his bowl of stew. “Well, if you’re getting somewhere, Ciaran, then eventually you will be there. And I suppose that’s progress enough for me. Certainly enough for a day’s worth of stalking your friends around the capitol.” He raised his bowl with a smirk, and after taking a moment to glare, Ciaran did the same. They clinked the rims, and both brought it to their lips.

It reminded Ciaran of their snowy northern fortress in the midst of the Dragon War, and the common dinners served by none other than the Dragon Slayer.

_ Step Five: Commit _

Ciaran had read this final step several times over with no luck. It was far too easy a thing to say when everyone knew that committing to something was incredibly difficult. And yet, to break out of one’s shell,  _ any _ action taken was better than none.

The sun began to set behind her, her desk became alight in its shine. 

Her hands, so deft for killing, gently scratched a quill to paper, and she began to write.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in November of 2019 on a train ride, and I figured that it's been sat on for long enough.  
> This is more of a character study for me than anything else, a neat little window into how I've come to headcanon the Four Knights of Gwyn. It's also a rage against the dark that is the distinct lack of fics centered on Lord's Blade Ciaran (and Hawkeye Gough, I guess, but that's an entirely different beast). Overall, I had fun writing this!  
> Oh, and I would love it if you told me any grievances you have with this fic, no pulled punches. I'm always looking to improve my writing and constructive criticism is probably the best way to go about that!  
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
